FOREST AND STREAM 
202 
clothing on sticks before the fire, and regener¬ 
ated his inner man with steaming hot coffee and 
a plentiful supply of food from their grub stakes. 
That he was in need of all their ministrations will 
be readily understood when it is said that the 
waters of the Gulch ran over a bed of thick ice, 
which, so far as I had observed, never melted, but 
lay imbedded between the rocks all summer long. 
It was in the midst of these rocks, which were 
covered with thick, dark brown moss, that the 
trout used to hide. 
I made my appearance just as my German 
friends were concluding their meal, and was 
amused by their surprise at the large number of 
trout which I had caught. With genuine hospital¬ 
ity they invited me to stay and share their repast, 
but I had had enough entertainment for one day. 
Giving them half of my trout, and leaving them 
to the enjoyment of these delicacies, I wended 
my way back over the twelve miles that separated 
me from my house, climbing the rail fences that 
guarded the intervening fields, and arriving home 
deliciously tired, ready to eat the meat and sleep 
the sleep of the successful angler. 
That trip to the Gulch was only one of many 
during my residence at Shokan. There was 
another that I particularly call to mind, produc¬ 
tive of results almost as amusing, and equally as 
interesting, to me at least, as the one I have just 
related. It happened one day while I was fishing 
in company with a friend from the city. We had 
started to fish near the head of the Gulch, and 
had gradually worked down, when, on hearing 
an exclamation from my friend, I turned and saw 
a full-grown black bear running down one side 
of the stream. My citified companion gave a 
start, and leaped precipitately out of the water. 
“Did you see that bear?” he shouted, excitedly. 
“How could I help it,” I remarked, quietly 
amused. 
“Well,” he replied, with a quick, nervous glance 
in the direction of the lumbering brute, “you take 
it very calmly.” 
“I’m fishing, not hunting,” was my laconic 
answer. 
“Next time I go fishing, I carry a gun!” he de¬ 
clared, with an air of mingled determination and 
startled bewilderment. 
“Mm-hum,” I grunted. The bear galloped along 
down the stream and crossed up the mountain on 
the other side. He was within twenty-five yards 
of us. 
“You must expect such surprises as this,” I told 
him. We resumed our fishing further down 
stream. 
It was shortly after this that we arrived in 
front of a large tree on which was placarded a 
sign, “No Fishing Allowed Here.” My friend 
was rather perturbed at this, and labored under 
the delusion that our operations would have to 
be suspended. I assured him that I had fished in 
that very spot a great many times, and that I did 
not propose to discontinue my habits at this late 
day. A little further on we came in full view of 
a large house. 
“What are you doing there?” a man yelled 
from the veranda. 
“Fishing, of course,” I replied. 
“Well, didn’t you see the signs?” 
“Of course.” 
At this moment another man came out on the 
veranda. 
“Hello, Cary,” he shouted. “What are you up 
to?” “Fishing, of course,” I replied. 
The last questioner was Quincy Ward, a well- 
known sculptor, and an old friend of mine. It 
developed that the house was a new club-house, 
which had been built while I was away on a trip 
through the West, and which I had not seen since 
my return. We were invited to dine, and, at 
Ward's request we revisited the house a few days 
later, spending a delightful ten days in painting 
the beautiful scenery that abounded along the 
brook. 
But to return to the subject of sport, there 
were many other diversions besides trout fishing 
in Shokan. Small game was plentiful, and it 
must have been a poor huntsman who could not 
fill his bag from the stock that inhabited the 
country. But game was not as plentiful during 
the later years as it was in the days when my 
grandfather used to hunt through that region. In 
those days there were panthers, bears, elk and 
bob-cats in large numbers. It was my grand¬ 
father’s custom to take his dogs and his horse 
and gun aboard one of the sloops at Greenwich 
village, and sail up to Kingston, riding back to 
Shokan when he had enough of hunting. 
Bears were common, and Ernes Brown and I 
used to trap them frequently. Ernes, who was 
comparatively a newcomer in Shokan, had built 
a log trap several miles back in the mountains, 
on the side of a small gully. One day, as we ap¬ 
proached the trap, we found that a bear had dug 
his way out from the bottom. Arriving just in 
time to see him go running down the side of the 
mountain, we discovered that he had sprung the 
trap and eaten all of the bait. I do not men¬ 
tion what the bait consisted of because my dig¬ 
nity forbids it. 
One day, as I approached Ernes’ pig-pen, I was 
surprised to see a Canada lynx trying to reach a 
litter of young pigs. He did not run, but faced 
me and growled. I dropped my bag of bear bait, 
but before I could get my gun off my back and 
cock it, he had gone down the gulch and was hid¬ 
den by the bushes. I told Ernes, and he started 
down after him with his two dogs and gun. But 
it was like hunting a needle in a hay stack, and 
he soon called off the dogs and came back. 
The larger game around Shokan gradually 
diminished, and the tame bear that my son Clin¬ 
ton encountered one day while walking through 
the woods was probably a sign of the times. He 
caused a lot of trouble, that bear, and he traveled 
all the way from Canada to do it. 
He was the property of a Canadian who had 
led him down from the other side of the border, 
and his performances were the talk of the town 
for weeks after he had gone. He used to sleep 
in a barn cuddled up close to his master. One 
His Feet Flew Over His Head and He Went Splashing Into the Stream. 
